


Christmas in Brighton

by flippyspoon



Series: Brightonverse [5]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippyspoon/pseuds/flippyspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas ball at The Moon Cat!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas in Brighton

**December 1922**

“Jimmy.”

“Mmm.”

“Jimmy.”

“Go away.”

Thomas sighed, kneeling by the bed, and glared at a mop of golden hair.  “It’s Sunday.”

He was met with no response, so he continued.  “It’s Sunday and it’s off season which means we’re off-”

“Mmmgo hmph,” Jimmy said into his pillow.

“So we can buy a tree which was  _your_  idea-”

Jimmy whimpered and turned his head slightly to say, “I can’t buy a tree. I’m dead.”

“Whose fault is that?”  Thomas said.

“Shut up.”

Thomas had thought he was getting somewhere but Jimmy burrowed under the navy blue duvet and matching pillows.  The wall paper was dark blue too and they had dubbed it The Blue Room, as if they lived in a great house.  Thomas rolled his eyes.  He had already bathed and dressed for the day.  Jimmy was impossible when he was hungover.

It was time then for the big guns.

Thomas trotted downstairs to the kitchen of their modest flat and went to work on a horrid concoction of egg, malt vinegar, and worcestershire sauce, among other things.  Back upstairs, he set the glass on Jimmy’s round oak nightstand and crawled under the covers, headed for a naked body.  He kissed Jimmy’s hip and Jimmy jerked and then hummed.

Underneath the blanket, he waited until Jimmy murmured, “Mmm…go on.”

Thomas nippled on Jimmy’s hip and kissed his lower belly and he reached Jimmy’s bottom.  He bit the left cheek harder than playful until Jimmy yelped in surprise and rolled over, falling out of the bed.  Thomas cackled in amusement.

“Oh! You bastard!”  Jimmy said.

Thomas crawled across the bed and gazed down at his angry lover, naked on the thick rug, propped up on his elbows.  Thomas smirked at him.  “Drink your cure, you lush.”  Thomas was kind enough to reach for the glass and hand it down.

“You could have just given it over,” Jimmy grumbled. “Me head’s killin’ me.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

Jimmy dutifully drank the awful stuff in one go, making a face and gagging when he was done.  “Ugh…  Oh Lord, that’s disgustin’.”

“You’ll feel better in fifteen minutes, then you’ll be ready for breakfast,” Thomas informed him.

Jimmy sneered and fell back to the floor.  “You must be joking. I’m never eating again.”

Only ten minutes later, Thomas was humming to himself as he fried eggs in the kitchen.  The bangers were already done and he was waiting on the toast.  He smirked to himself when he heard Jimmy thundering down the stairs soon followed by a kiss on his neck.

“I’m starved!”  Jimmy said.

“There he is,” Thomas said.  “Bright eyed and bushy-tailed.”

Jimmy leaned on the kitchen counter and watched Thomas work.  They had eaten little else but cold food and restaurant meals when they had first moved to Brighton in the summer.  But through trial and error, they were learning to cook…well enough, anyhow.  They both had bits of knowledge picked up from Patmore or childhood.

“This is what I like to see,” Jimmy mused.  “My man knows his place.”

Thomas raised a wary eyebrow.  “And what place is that precisely?”

Jimmy picked up a banger and nibbled on the end.  “Well…with his prick shoved up me bum preferably.  But cookin’ me food is almost as good.”

“Lovely breakfast conversation.”  Thomas spooned eggs into a bowl and nodded at Jimmy to bring the bangers and toast into their small dining room where the tea was already steeping.

“I think so,” Jimmy said.  Before he sat down, he leaned across the table and kissed Thomas on the cheek. “Thank you for my cure.”

“If you didn’t deserve it, I’d have let you suffer,” Thomas said haughtily.  “But you’ve been well behaved lately.”

Jimmy took a sip of tea and winced.  “I didn’t do anything too awful last night, did I?”

“You were singing “Modern Major General” at the top of your lungs all the way home,” Thomas said.  “Poorly, I might add. Then you refused to go upstairs. You stripped naked in the parlor and insisted I ravish you on the chaise.”

“Oh.” Jimmy pouted.  “Sorry I missed that.”

“I didn’t do it.  You were far too drunk.”

Jimmy grinned while buttering his toast.  “So chivalrous.”

“Yes, well, you would’ve been rubbish anyway.”

Jimmy snorted a laugh and then a dark look crossed his face. “Oh… Hmm.”

Thomas paused in his chewing.  “Hmm?”

“Ah, it’s nothin’,” Jimmy said.  He shoved a forkful of eggs in his mouth and shook his head.

“Jimmy…”

“Nothin’!  Just…I’ve just remembered a couple things I have to tell you,” Jimmy said, with a sigh.  “Not looking forward to it.”

“What’ve you done.”

“I haven’t done anything!” Jimmy said.  “In fact, it’s  _your_  fault, all of it.  On account of, you’re not friendly enough.”

Thomas choked on his tea.  “What?”

“Schiller,” Jimmy said, and ate the rest of his banger as if that would explain it.

“Schiller…?”  Thomas repeated, gesturing his fork.

“Schiller spoke to me,” Jimmy went on.  “Luckily, it was before the absinthe.  He said he wants you to play Father Christmas at the winter ball.”

Thomas paused, the clatter of his fork and knife suddenly silenced.  “He  _what_?”

“He thinks you’re a brilliant manager,” Jimmy said.  “Honestly. He thinks you hung the moon. His only criticism is that you’re not very chummy with the patrons.  Approachable, he said.  You’re not approachable.”

“What’ve I got to be chummy for?” Thomas said, sitting back and suddenly a bit put off of his breakfast.   He lit a cigarette instead.  “My job is to make sure the club runs smoothly and everyone’s being served properly.”

Jimmy laughed and rolled his eyes.  “Ah no, Thomas.  That’s not your only job.”

“Wha-”

“You’re job is to throw a party.  You know that,” Jimmy said.  He eyed Thomas’s cigarette and nudged a saucer underneath the faltering ashes.  “Use somethin’, would you?  We keep gettin’ ash all over the table cloth.”

Thomas tapped his ashes into the saucer.  “Schiller thinks I’m a bad host,” Thomas said.  “And he talked to  _you_  about it?”

“He’s not stupid, Thomas,” Jimmy said.  “He knows we’re together.  He thought you might like this better coming from me.  And he doesn’t think you’re a bad host.  Look, it’s not a problem.  He just thinks you could be a bit friendlier with the patrons, who already like you, by the way.  They think you’re mysterious.”

“Really…” Thomas said, smiling.  “Mysterious.”

“‘Course! Tall, dark, and handsome man with a war injury who never talks about himself.  Very mysterious. They ask me questions about you all the time.”

Thomas exhaled a plume of smoke and frowned.  “And what do you say?”

“Oh, I make things up. I told some American debutantes that you used to pan for gold.  They always found out I’ve lied, but everyone finds it charming.”

Thomas contemplated the thought of wearing a Father Christmas suit… “I don’t know how to play Father Christmas-”

“It’s easy! The ladies’ll sit on your lap on the stage-”

“On the  _stage_?”

“And you’ll ask them what they want for Christmas.  Bit of a show.  He said I could help.  I mean if ya get stuck.”

Thomas smoked and squinted.  “I see. You think I’ll get stuck.”

“I said  _if_  you get stuck.”

“Fine,” Thomas said, though he was gritting his teeth a little.  The whole thing sounded humiliating to him.  “What was the other thing?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you had a couple of things to tell me,” Thomas said as Jimmy scarfed up the rest of his toast and eggs.  “What was the other…”

“Mmm…”  Jimmy avoided Thomas’s eyes and mumbled something into his plate.

“Uh, pardon?”  Thomas said, narrowing his eyes.

“I said, Miss Collins is havin’ us over for Sunday supper tonight,” Jimmy said.

Thomas gaped at him.  “Miss Collins, our land lady?”

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?”

“She thinks we’re lonely bachelors and underfed,” Jimmy said, shrugging.  

“Funny, I always imagined our lifestyle precluded us from the horrors of a Sunday supper.”  Thomas poured himself some tea.  Indignity upon indignity. Would it never stop?

“She kept askin’ me,” Jimmy said.  “Thought we might as well get it over with.  Besides, she said she’d make mutton. I like lamb.  We’re to go over at four.”

“Marvelous.  And on a day off too.”

* * *

Before the lamb however, there was the matter of the tree.  They walked into town to the tree lot and Thomas remarked how odd it was to be picking out a Christmas tree when they could see the ocean.  It rang of the exotic to both of them.  Jimmy could hardly contain his excitement.  It was their first proper Christmas together.  His two Christmases at Downton had both been marred by the stain of grief.  Even though he’d hardly known Matthew Crawley at all, much less Lady Sybil, the palpable darkness that had surrounded the attempts at celebration had only served to make the grief over his parents’ deaths fresh again.  At least during the second Christmas, he had been friends with Thomas.  His first Christmas at Downton had been awkward and tense all around.  But now they were  _together_.  They were on their own and they had fantastic jobs and they were picking out a Christmas tree.  They bickered over the size and then Thomas haggled with the tree man until he was happy with the price.  The walk home was a bit of a nightmare, as it was starting to drizzle and it was a long way.  When they finally managed to get the tree inside the flat, Thomas was smug because even the smaller tree that Jimmy had settled for was nearly scraping the ceiling of their parlor.  Jimmy crossed his arms and listen to Thomas grumble as he fit the tree into a metal stand, hunched down on his hands and knees.  Finally it was standing upright, but from under the pine fronds, he heard Thomas utter a startled exclamation and hiss in pain.

“What’s the matter?”  Jimmy said.

“Ah, nothin’.  Just a splinter,” Thomas said, standing and holding up his right hand.  He scowled at the fleshy bit of palm under his thumb.   “Pretty far under the skin though.  I’ll get it-”

“No, I’ll do it!”  Jimmy said quickly, and made his way up the stairs.  “I’ll just get a needle.  Don’t try to get it with your fingers, you might leave a bit in there.”

Jimmy made a mess of the armoir in their bedroom, looking for Thomas’s sewing kit.  When he finally found it, he was afraid that Thomas might have already removed the splinter.  He couldn’t even think of why he was happy to do something so simple.

Downstairs, he found Thomas waiting patiently, seated on the green chaise next to their tree and staring at his hand.

“I can do it myself, you know,” Thomas said. “I was a medic. I can handle a splinter.”

“I want to,” Jimmy muttered.  

Jimmy took Thomas’s hand in his and brought it closer to the light of the lamp on a side table.  He bit his lip and gently dug the needle under Thomas’s skin, as his patient murmured protestations.

“Careful…  Ow! Careful!”

“That’s got it!”  Jimmy said.  A bit of dead skin was torn up, but the splinter was free and Jimmy held it up in triumph.  He dropped the splinter carefully on the table. “Nasty bugger, that.” He kissed Thomas’s hand.  They sat quietly for a moment and Thomas gazed up at him in a way that Jimmy had only recently sussed out.  It was as if Thomas couldn’t quite believe his life was real.  He seemed a measure doubtful from time to time- his eyes suddenly a little dark.  Happily, it happened less and less often.  But it bothered Jimmy when he saw it at all.  The only thing for it was to reassure him.

He kissed Thomas softly and whispered, “You make me very happy, you blundering fool.”  Thomas cracked a smile and Jimmy kissed his cheek.  “You great dullard.”  He kissed Thomas’s neck.  “You massive oaf…”

“I love you too,” Thomas murmured, and they kissed teasingly for a bit until Jimmy felt compelled to push him down on the big green chaise and get serious.

“What do you want?”  Jimmy said, lying on top of Thomas.  He took Thomas’s hand again and kissed his wrist.  “Anything you want…”

“Lets…”  Thomas said.  “Let’s just lie here for a bit.  Alright?”

“Really?”  Jimmy said.  He smirked up at Thomas.  “Tiring of me already?”

“Of course not.  But it’s our day off and we can do whatever we like.  Let’s just lie here a bit.”  Jimmy relaxed and rested his head over Thomas’s heart.  “Then we’ll decorate our tree.”

It was nice actually, just to relax- with nothing important to do but go to supper later.  Jimmy played with Thomas’s hands and Thomas played with his hair.  Jimmy thought of how they could never do this sort of thing when they had worked at Downton- certainly not in the middle of the day.

“Do you remember when Lady Sybil died?”  Jimmy said suddenly.  He felt stupid and said, “Sorry, ‘course you do.”

“Yeah…?”  Thomas said.

“I didn’t know you well then.  Obviously.  But I did like you alright, except for when, well, when you frightened me, see.”

“Mmm…”  Thomas hummed in a agreement.

“Well, I remember when…when Carson told us.  The night Lady Sybil died, when we were all in our pajamas.  And you’d just been speakin’ well of her and sayin’ how well you knew her and I saw how torn up you were-”

He felt Thomas shiver a little and squeezed his hand.

“Anyway, I…I saw you there, when ole Carson told us and he said we ought to carry on.  Then you walked out first, I guess ‘cause you were so upset.  And…and I wanted to go after you.”  He paused and shifted, to look at Thomas.  

“You did not,” Thomas said.

“I never would have done it,” Jimmy said.  “Not then. And I wouldn’t have known what to say.  But…I wanted to go after you.”

Thomas cupped his cheek and kissed his nose.  “Well…you did.  Eventually.”

* * *

Later after tree decorating and tea over lazy perusals of the newspapers, they were standing in front of Miss Collins’s door.   Thomas had a box of tea cakes from the bakery down the street as an offering.  Thomas knocked and Jimmy turned to him, his eyes wide.

“Thomas!” Jimmy hissed.  “I’ve just thought of something!”

“Just a moment!”  Miss Collins’s voice rang out from within the flat.  They heard the shuffling of feet.

“What is it?”  Thomas said.

“We’re two bachelors with decent jobs and our spinster landlady has invited us over for Sunday supper-”

“Oh!” Thomas said.

“Yes.”

“It’s a set-up.”

The door opened and Miss Collins appeared, smiling kindly.  Beside their greying and sweet-faced landlady stood two young red-headed women around Jimmy’s age in fetching but modest frocks and cloches, staring at the floor.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Miss Collins said.  “I’ve invited my nieces over as well…”

The nieces were Miss Collins’s brother’s daughters, so they were all called Miss Collins.  To her credit, Emma, the older one, caught on quickly that her aunt’s little fix-up was not going to go as planned.  Unfortunately, her sister, Annabelle, would not stop staring at Jimmy and batted her pretty hazel eyes. Emma seemed to put two and two together around the time that Jimmy casually mentioned that Thomas had taken a vow of chastity before God if he survived the war.  Thomas choked on a flavorful bit of mutton as Jimmy said this and glared until Jimmy kicked him under the table.

“How unusual,” Miss Emma Collins said, her eyebrows disappearing into her brilliant red bob of hair.

“Jimmy’s very different, of course,” Thomas said smoothly.  “A real lady’s man, this one.”

“Well…” Jimmy chuckled, and flashed the girls a grin.  “I do like the ladies.”

Annabelle giggled and Emma said kindly, “Of course, you do.”  But she glanced at her sister and Thomas hoped her expression meant: We must stop having supper at auntie’s.

Thomas washed his mutton down with a poorly-considered swig of wine.  “The only thing he likes more than lasses is cricket.  Tell me again, Jimmy, are you a bowler or a keeper?”

He could tell that Jimmy was trying very hard not to laugh.  A half minute of confused glances between the eldest Miss Collins and the nieces passed before Jimmy could manage to say with a straight face: “I like to switch it up.”

The eldest Miss Collins said, “I think it’s nice when lads like sport!”

Thomas cleared his throat and said, “And do you like sport, Miss Collins?”

“Pardon?”  All three Miss Collinses said.

“Ah, that is, the younger Miss Collins,” Thomas said.  He nodded at Annabelle.  “The youngest I mean.”

They got through the dinner well enough and the eldest Miss Collins, to her credit, did not push very hard to force any matches.  They ate the tea cakes and chatted about how well they liked Brighton and Thomas thought his mind would implode from such forced niceties.  As they were leaving Jimmy winked at their landlady and said, “Your nieces are lovely.”

Their landlady shrugged and said, “Never hurts to try.  I won’t be tryin’ again though.  Have a fine evening, lads.”

Back in their own flat, they burst into laughter and headed upstairs to change out of their suits.

“Do you think we made her angry?”  Jimmy said.

“She was fine,” Thomas said.  “No thanks to you.”

“Me?  I nearly died when you brought up cricket!”

“Couldn’t help it,” Thomas said, and smacked his bottom.  “You’re an excellent cricket player.”   Thomas was hanging up his jacket and trousers when he turned around to see Jimmy clad only in his underwear and socks.  “In fact…”  He pushed Jimmy down onto the bed and kissed him hard, his hand finding his way up Jimmy’s thigh.

“Mmm…don’t feel like restin’ now then?”  Jimmy mumbled.

“No, I don’t.”

Soon enough they were naked and then Thomas couldn’t decide precisely what he wanted.  He kissed Jimmy for ages first and then all over his body.  He pleasured Jimmy with his mouth, then stopped and writhed with him until they were both groaning, their pricks in Thomas’s hands.  Then he just kissed Jimmy helplessly and feeling half-mad said, “I don’t know, I don’t know. I want all of you at once…”

Jimmy gave him a fierce look and rolled Thomas over onto his back, grabbing for the tin of petrol jelly stashed under the pillows.  Then Jimmy was seated atop him and Thomas gripped his hips and curled his fingers into Jimmy’s bottom as they rocked together.

“Ah…yes, my love…” Jimmy hissed.  Jimmy had learned by now how to move his hips in that particular way that had Thomas breathless and slack-jawed and both of them sweaty.  Thomas started to reach for Jimmy’s prick but Jimmy slapped his hand away.  “No…just..watch me…”  Instead Jimmy took himself in hand while staring down at Thomas through a curtain of damp golden fringe.  Thomas thrust into him, unbearably close, and he arched and twisted and shuddered on the bed until Jimmy’s orgasm finished him off and he kissed Jimmy’s hand and moaned into his palm as he came.

Jimmy collapsed on top of him and they panted; sticky and sated.  Thomas reached for the cigarettes on his nightstand and lit himself a smoke.  Outside it was raining.  Their bedroom windows with the ocean view were shut and the blue and white striped curtains were always carefully drawn.  But Thomas could hear the pleasant tap of rain and wondered when it had begun; it had not been raining when they’d left Miss Collins’s flat.  

Jimmy nibbled on Thomas’s shoulder and sighed.  “Now if you did that as Father Christmas-”

Thomas laughed, choking on his smoke.

* * *

One week later, Jimmy knocked on the door to Thomas’s office at The Moon Cat.  The invitation-only Christmas ball was in full swing.  The bohemians were in attendance, of course.  Professor Bloom and Peter Faring had shown up already intoxicated in disheveled dinner jackets and paper crowns, arm in arm, and arguing about the future of the novel with Stephen Doyle, the American Southerner, who was smoking from a long cigarette holder, his belly hanging over his belt.  Melinda Vyse (thankfully sans capuchin) was late arriving with Constance Foster.  Miss Vyse was in good spirits, as her recent gallery show in Paris had gone quite well.  Miss Foster was also in good spirits: mainly bourbon.

“Thomas?”  Jimmy knocked on the door again.  “Are you ready?”

“I look ridiculous,”  Thomas said.

“Open the door!”

Thomas opened the door and Jimmy clapped a hand to his mouth.  Thomas wore a dark green and white fur Father Christmas suit and a long pointy white beard that hit mid-chest.   Jimmy could still see his black hair under the hat.

Jimmy nearly choked from trying not to laugh.  He cleared his throat.  “Haven’t you got a wig?”

“It itches,” Thomas reported.  “So…nope.”

Thomas blinked at him and Jimmy sniffed his breath.  “Are you drunk?”

“Well, I’m not doin’ this sober.”

Father Christmas’s chair was a large white wooden throne that sat stage left.  The stage was festooned with holly and silver garlands.  The Moon Cat had four large Christmas trees professionally decorated in glass ornaments and crystal drops.  The club was packed- Schiller had signed off on the invitations himself.  It was the place to be, apparently-even for society sorts (of a certain sort of society) from London.  Schiller sat at his table on the upper level of the club with his sister, Lara, and the bohemians.  The band was playing jazzy Christmas numbers and Jimmy ushered Thomas backstage.  Thankfully, he wasn’t too drunk.  Just drunk enough to be relaxed, Jimmy hoped.  A little more St. Nicholas, a little less Mr. Barrow.

Jimmy found that thought just a little bit…enticing.

Jimmy was wearing a dinner jacket himself.  Schiller had decided Jimmy should MC for the night.  He had already announced Father Christmas’s impending arrival and a queue had formed at the side of the stage composed of attractive ladies and a couple of boisterous men.

 _Long as they keep their paws off him, we’ll be fine_ , Jimmy thought.

Onstage, Jimmy gestured for the band to end their song and then he took hold of the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”  He said.  The crowd quieted and Jimmy said, “Ladies and gentlemen… Oh, apologies, I don’t see any actual gentlemen or ladies, do I?”  He pretended to look troubled and the crowd laughed.  “Just a bunch of depraved fiends here, aren’t we?”

The crowd cheered and held up their drinks.

“Excellent!” Jimmy said.  “Well, if you’ve been quite naughty this year, you’re in for a treat.  Our Father Christmas only brings gifts to the boys and girls who’ve been very bad this year.  And here he is now, Father Christmas!”

Thomas stumbled out from behind the curtain and Jimmy ushered him to his chair.

“Hello,” Thomas said to the crowd.  “Hello, hello.”

“Ho ho ho,” Jimmy whispered in his ear.

“Ho ho ho!” Thomas said.

The first patron to sit on Thomas’s lap was a giggling young thing in a slip of a dress.

Thomas said, “Have you been very bad this year?”

“Oh, awful!”  She insisted.

“Brilliant,” Thomas said.

The crowd ate it up.

“And what do you want for Christmas, aye?” Thomas said.

“Gin!”  The girl said.

“Done!”

It went swimmingly for the first few patrons and Jimmy hardly had to do a thing other than punch Thomas in the shoulder if he suddenly forgot to answer.  A middle-aged man in a top hat sat on Thomas’s knee and fell off twice before laughingly staggering off the stage without asking for anything.  The next patron took them both by surprise.

“Lady Rose!”  Jimmy said.

Her dress was red and beaded and scandalously short.  She wore a head band.  Jimmy thought there might be a couple of diamonds in it.  She sat on Thomas’s knee and beamed.

“Hello there, Father Christmas!”  Lady Rose said.

“You haven’t been too naughty, have ya?”  Thomas said.

“Oh,  _terribly_!  And for Christmas I want the handsomest man in The Moon Cat!”

“Sorry, my Lady, I’m taken!”  Thomas said.

Lady Rose kissed Thomas and Jimmy on the cheek and promised to catch up with them later.  She was followed by a gorgeous brunette in a long green dress with a slit up to the thigh who sat in Thomas’s lap as if it if were her favorite chair and posed and preened for the audience.

“And what’s your name?”  Thomas said.

“They call me…Franny!”  Franny said.

“I’d call ya lovely!” Jimmy said, holding up his glass.  Someone had handed him a  _second_  martini by then.

“Why thank you, darling!”  Franny said.

“And have you been very bad, Franny?”  Thomas said.

“I’m simply the worst there is,” Franny admitted.

“Then you deserve every drink in the club!”

“I deserve every  _man_  in this club!” Franny declared.  “Starting with you!”  She leaned down and planted a kiss on Thomas’s lips.  Jimmy rolled his eyes, feeling just a little hot under the collar.

“Yes, alright,” he grumbled. The kiss went on a shade too long as the crowd cheered and Jimmy punched Thomas in the shoulder.  “Excuse me!  There are…people waiting.”

Franny sat up.  Thomas was bright red and sheepish.  Franny shrugged and batted her eyes.  “My apologies.  I’m a bit out of sorts, you see this wig is terrible itchy-”

With that, Franny removed the apparent wig to reveal that she was, in fact, a man in a frock.

Jimmy’s jaw dropped.

The audience cheered louder than Jimmy had ever heard but his own blood was positively boiling.

“Th-that’s all the time we have for Father Christmas, I’m afraid!”  Jimmy announced into the microphone.  “And now…the Eugene King Orchestra!”

Jimmy escorted Thomas backstage and when they were safe inside his office, he scowled, shaking an angry finger in Thomas’s droopy-eyed face.  “Did you know that was a man when you were kissin’ him?  Don’t lie, Thomas!”

Thomas blinked and then his eyes were comically big.  “That was a  _man_?”

“Oh, Lord. I’ll get you some coffee.”

He left Thomas to change his clothes and crossing the floor to the kitchens, he spotted Franny holding court at the bar.  Jimmy pursed his lips and shoved past patrons and dancing men in suits to the man in the frock who was again wearing his wig.  He really was convincing.  Jimmy tapped him on the shoulder; bare beneath the thin straps of his dress.

Franny turned around and smiled brilliantly.  Jimmy pulled his fist back and started to throw a punch when the man in the frock caught his hand neatly and raised an eyebrow.  His grip was unstoppable and Jimmy stared at the unexpectedly muscular arm attached to the hand holding his in mid-air.  The other guests surrounding them watched with interest.

Franny said, “Am I to understand we are having a disagreement?”

Jimmy fought Franny’s grip, but it was no good.  How mortifying.

“Father Christmas!”  Jimmy growled.

“That handsome Mr. Barrow,” Franny cooed.  “Feeling left out? I’ll kiss you too. Any day with that mouth, but you must promise not to bite.”

“He’s mine!”

Franny nodded.  “I see.  How tragic.”  She looked at him warily.  “Are you in  _love_  with him?”

“Madly,” Jimmy hissed.

“Delightful!”  Franny said.  “Then let’s not fight.  I apologize.”

Jimmy huffed but he relaxed his arm and Franny let go.  Jimmy blushed and straightened his jacket.  Franny clapped him on the shoulder so hard that Jimmy stumbled forward.  “I’ll buy you champagne.”

“No, that’s alright,” Jimmy grumbled.  “I work here, I’ll give you one on the house.”

“You’re a treasure!”  Franny said, and nudged him.  “How lucky he is to have you, all protective and sweet.  And not so bad to look at.”

Jimmy snorted a laugh and left Franny to lean on the bar, as he pushed his way through the crowd to get around to the other side.  He poured two glasses of champagne, nodding at the two other bartenders busy at cocktails.  He spotted Thomas making his way through the dancing couples and waved him over.  He’d forgotten the coffee and fixed Thomas a glass of club soda instead.

“Is your name really Franny?”  Jimmy said, handing over a glass of champagne.

“Frances Gordon,” Franny said smoothly.  “When it suits me.”

“Well, you’ve got a good arm, Franny,” Jimmy said.

“You should see me with a cricket bat.”

Jimmy started and spit his champagne, blushing and apologizing as he wiped down the counter.

The ball was a great success.  Schiller was happy and amused by the patrons who laughed with Thomas and congratulated him on his antics as Father Christmas.  Jimmy felt a swell of pride, and decided that a few more gifts under the tree were needed for his Mr. Barrow on their first Christmas together.

The next day he left the flat early to go shopping and a hid a pile of parcels in the closet of their unused second bedroom.  The next day he did the same.  Gifts were piling up.  He couldn’t seem to stop himself.  He wanted to give Thomas everything.  So much for poker games for the next month or two.

On Christmas Eve he fought to stay awake until he knew Thomas was asleep and then snuck into the second bedroom to take the gifts downstairs and stash them under the tree.  

On Christmas morning, he woke to whispering.

“Jimmy.”

“Hmm.”

“Jimmy…”

“Hmm,” Jimmy mumbled.  “No cabbages.”

“Huh?”

Jimmy opened his eyes and smiled widely.  “Oh… I was dreamin’ you were sellin’ cabbages at a fair.  I hate cabbage.”

“I’ll make note of that,” Thomas said.  They were naked and facing each other in the bed.  “It’s Christmas morning.”

“Oh, good.  Happy Christmas.”

“Do you want your present?”  Thomas said, and nudged Jimmy’s leg with his own under the covers.

“Just one?”  Jimmy pouted.

“It’s a very good present.  I was keepin’ it at Miss Collins’s flat, I brought it over this morning.  It’s nearly eight o’clock now.”

They didn’t bother to change, only cleaning their teeth and putting on their dressing gowns.   Thomas walked  Jimmy down the stairs while keeping his hands over Jimmy’s eyes.

“If I break me neck, it’s your fault,” Jimmy said.

“I want you to be surprised,” Thomas said, leading him over the steep steps.  Jimmy held onto Thomas’s arm, feeling unwieldy.

“I’ll be very surprised if I break me neck.”

In the parlor, Jimmy waited, Thomas’s gloved hand warm over his eyelids.  “This better be good, ya know. You  _are_  Father Christmas.”

“Alright,” Thomas said.  “I’m goin’ to do something, but keep your eyes closed.  Understand?”

“So dramatic.”

“Keep em’ closed!”

“Yes, alright.  Til when?”

“You’ll know.”

Thomas took his hand away and Jimmy crossed his arms.  He heard Thomas walk away and then some shuffling of papers and taps and clicks.  Suddenly Jimmy heard music; “The Sheik of Araby” was playing.  Jimmy gasped and opened his eyes.  The green chaise was shoved closer to the hall and between it and the Christmas, a brand new gramophone sat atop a wooden cabinet.

“Thomas!”  Jimmy said.  “You didn’t!”

“You like it?”  Thomas said, and shoving his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown.  He was all tousled and his beard was growing in.  Jimmy tackled him and pushed him down on the chaise, attacking him with kisses.

“Do I like it?  I haven’t gotten you anything half so good!”

Thomas eyed the mound of wrapped parcels under the tree.  “Yes although…I’m a little concerned as to the number…”

Jimmy made them tea and threw propriety out the window, insisting they eat biscuits and cake for breakfast.  Thomas’s concern only increased as he sorted through his loot and soon he was surrounded by torn up wrapping and boxes as jazz records blared from the gramophone.

“Jimmy, what do I need two bowlers for?  They’re exactly the same.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes and plopped down next to him on the floor.  “No.  One is black and one is charcoal grey.”

“You’ve bought too much,” Thomas said, and held up a brown tweed jacket.  “And this will never fit me.”

“Well, I’ll take that then,” Jimmy said.  “But do you like it all?”

“Of course,” Thomas said, laughing and ruffled Jimmy’s hair.

  
“And I’ve got you a new watch chain,” Jimmy said, “and a couple of ties and some books of  poetry that Peter thought you’d fancy since you like T.S. Eliot so much and-”

Thomas stopped him with a kiss.  “You’re very sweet.  But I’m glad Christmas is only once a year or you’d spend us into poverty.”

Jimmy grinned and stood.  “Let’s dance, aye?”  He put “The Sheik of Araby” on again and knotted one of the freshly bought ties around Thomas’s forehead.  “Come on, sheik.”

Thomas chuckled and stood, taking his hand.  Jimmy let Thomas lead and they fox trotted around the parlor, kicking the boxes out of the way.  Thomas rested his forehead against Jimmy’s and sang softly, “Oh, I’m the sheik of Araby…  Your love belongs to me…”


End file.
